


Memories of the Gerudo King

by kingkonglomerate



Category: The Legend of Zelda & Related Fandoms, The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild, The Legend of Zelda: The Ocarina of Time
Genre: Diary/Journal, Gen, Memories, Pre-Oot, Reminiscing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-02
Updated: 2018-10-06
Packaged: 2019-07-24 00:26:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16169837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kingkonglomerate/pseuds/kingkonglomerate
Summary: A collection of the thoughts of Ganondorf, last king of the Gerudo.(Inspired by the diary/journal entries found in Breath of the Wild)





	1. A Loaf of Bread

The Journal of Ganondorf, King of the Gerudo

“It is told in our legends that the Gerudo did not always live in the desert. They speak of a time when we, like the Hylians, lived in abundance - tilling green fields watered by steady rains, sating ourselves on the fat of plentiful livestock. They are remembered now as the Blessed Days, a distant time on the fringes of memory.

The Histories of the Hylians make no mention of such a time, save to dismiss it as mere fable. They say we Gerudo misremember the past to ‘justify our enmity with Hylia and her offspring’ and ‘fuel our insatiable need to covet what is rightfully possessed by others.’ As always, they regard us as nothing more than petty thieves.

I remember the first time I was caught stealing. I was a child, little more than a vehvi. It was a loaf of bread - a paltry thing to any Hylian, but to me, a hungry and stupid child, it seemed like mana from Highest Heaven, more precious than all the jewels of the Temple of Spirits. I desired that bread with all my soul. I had nothing to trade for it, of course - we Gerudo had only what we could take. So I took it, stuffing it under my garments and fleeing quietly out of the square.

I am not sure if it was carelessness or misfortune that caused the guard to spot me; perhaps the gods conspired against me even then, as though a loaf of bread was too great a mercy. Whatever the case, his grip upon my arm was like the bite of an asp and his voice like the anger of thunder. He dragged me to a nearby barracks and chained my wrists to a post, saying he would return when he decided how best to deal with me.

I stood there for hours, unable to sit. The rusty irons dug painfully into my wrists, moreso when my legs grew too weak to stand and I hung by them. Hunger continued to gnaw at my innards, made all the worse by the loss of my precious bread. Most loathsome of all, however, were the passersby. Some laughed at my misfortune, throwing pieces of food at me, knowing I could not reach them as they fell. Others gave derisive looks, shaking their heads and muttering some warning to their children. It was all quite the spectacle.

But worse than these by far - those who had most stirred my shame and earned the greater portion of my anger - were those who made no acknowledgement of me whatsoever. To be gawked at and ridiculed is painful, infuriating, but to be ignored... It was a deeper insult than all these. Being treated as a shade, like mere air - the shame of it was beyond words.

It was then that I saw the truth of our existence to these Hylians, that we were as _nothing_ to them. We were beneath their contempt, unworthy of their notice, beyond their concern. The sands could swallow us all and their lives would not change in the slightest.

I hated them for it, and not with the fleeting, petulant hatred of an upset child. The hatred that began that day has stayed with me ever since, growing as I have grown. It burns in my spirit like the west wind.

Eventually I was released, of course. The soldier’s talk of further punishment was merely to deepen my torment as I stood, unsure of what doom would come. I suppose he meant to teach me a lesson that day - a cruel warning of what fate awaited a thief. Indeed, I learned much.

Perhaps the tales of the Blessed Days are mere legends, as the Hylians say - fables as much beneath their notice as the people who carry them. But legends have a power of their own. I have sought this power, and now...

I will show Hyrule the power of a legend. I will make the children of Hylia see the resilience of the Gerudo...

When the power of the Triforce is mine, all will acknowledge it.”


	2. The Voice from the East

“My search for the Sacred Power has lead me down many paths, most of them false. The legends of my own people make scant mention of it, appearing only occasionally as a ‘blessed light in the east.’

Many believed this simply to be a reference to the Sun, ever rising as it does in the east. Even my own mothers, with their vast knowledge of the ancient and occult, told me such, but I doubted this interpretation since I first heard our stories as a boy. The Sun has never been a ‘blessing’ to we Gerudo. In the desert, it is only a bringer of death, and our own legends say as much. It is likened to a wrathful warrior, ‘rising from sleep and riding across Heaven like a horseman, scattering his enemies to the four winds with arrows of fire.’ Why would our stories make such vague references to something that in other places is described so distinctly? How can the same body be at once ‘blessed’ and a cause of so much suffering? The thought of it is almost profane.

As vague as this reference was, however, it gave me a vital clue: whatever this power was, it would not be found in the desert. To the Gerudo, ‘east’ and ‘west’ carry great significance. To the west is the Wasteland - an endless expanse where lost souls wander, ever unable to find their rest in the Temple of Spirits as they are blown about by violent winds. To the east, however, are the ‘Blessed Fields.’ The tales describe them as a land of plenty where the living thrive like ‘trees planted by glittering streams, bearing ample fruit and flowers of surpassing beauty.’

To the east is Hyrule, home of the Hylians. I have seen it with my own eyes...fields of green grass, etched by flowing streams and rivers. Miles of golden crops and orchards of fruit-bearing trees... If ever a land were blessed, it is surely that one.

And so I came, as always, to the land of the enemy, this time to steal not bread or gold, but knowledge. I scoured their Histories and Legends, piecing together the fragments of that mystery which had so eluded me in the Haunted Wastes. Through countless hours and piles of scrolls I waded through their skewed accounts and half-remembered myths, chasing false leads like so many mirages. I am told I scarcely ate or slept during this time and was severe to any who dared interrupt me. They worried that I had gone mad. Perhaps I had. But my madness was not fruitless - eventually, hour by hour, piece by piece, the truth began to immerge from the shadows of those pages until...

I saw a light: a small, burning ember that grew greater and brighter the more I gazed into it. It grew until it filled my vision and shone brighter than many suns - so bright I could not look at it, but so great I could not look away. It began to surround me, or perhaps draw me in, I know not which. I know only that I  _felt_ it, as one _feels_  the Sun, but beyond my mere flesh. I felt it through my whole being, body and spirit: a weight of glory, wondrous and terrible, too great for any mortal soul to bear.

Then I heard a voice. It seemed to echo across a distance as great as time, as high as Heaven is from Earth. And yet it also spoke  _within_ me - not as my spirit speaks or as I sometimes speak with my spirit, but as its own voice entirely, apart from any thought of my own.

It spoke of Power... Power beyond men or magic or nature. Power as much greater than mine as the light around and within me was greater than the Sun. Power that even gods could not ignore or oppose.

’It waits in the Sacred Realm, beyond the Doors of Time.’

Then I awoke in my bed. I was told I slept for three days, muttering words in a tongue not spoken by any race on the face of the Earth. I felt terribly weak and could hardly stand. For a time all food was repulsive to me, and I could scarcely drink. Everything seemed dim and indistinct, as though I were trapped in a dream.

But as my strength returned, I remembered more and more the vision I beheld and the voice that had spoken to me. And as I remembered, the path set before me became clear.

I will soon journey again to Hyrule. I go to steal, as I always have.

This time, I will take  __ _everything_ from them.”


	3. The Right to Rule

“The Door of Time is sealed by three keys. According to the Legends, they rest ‘in a Vast Forest,’ ‘upon a Fiery Mountain’ and ‘in the Heart of a River,’ awaiting the one ‘deemed worthy by the Goddesses’ to retrieve them.

A strange term, ‘worthy.’ What makes one ‘worthy’ of something in the eyes of the gods? To what do they look when measuring the span of one’s character?

Perhaps the answer lies in the Triforce itself. One whole in three parts: Power, Wisdom, Courage. Certainly those whom history and legend remember possess one of these in exceeding measure; our own kings and matriarchs are renowned for such qualities, else we would not sing of them. I suppose I, too, must be weighed in this balance in the fullness of time.

What of it, then? How will the great Ganondorf be remembered to the peoples of the world? What tales and songs will carry my legacy? 

Does it truly matter? Regardless of their qualities, all mortals share the same fate. In time, the sands claim all things...even our very memories. In the halls of eternity, only the gods are truly immortal.

How, then, can anything that dies be _truly_ worthy to possess such a thing? What are mortals that the gods should have any regard for us?

The Triforce...the power which grants dominion over all things...

Many say kingship was my right by birth. There is some truth in this: as the sole voe born among my sisters, tradition decrees that I be their ruler. This has held true, but I have not kept my throne by the power of inheritance alone. Any who live in the Wastes know that nothing is one’s own by right; everything one has must be kept through one’s own might or else be taken by another whose strength is greater.

I have kept my throne because I have crushed anyone who threatened to take it from me. The lands I possess are those I have defended from covetous hands - the gold and precious gems which fill my treasury those which I wrenched from the grasp of the weak. The very food and drink on which I subsist are the spoils of constant battle, paid for in the blood of my own sisters!

Who is there to judge my right to rule? What power in Heaven or on Earth would dare question my worthiness? Let them speak, if they can!

The Triforce...the power to rule...

I see it now. The truth of the matter is plain to me. It is the truth I have seen my whole life.

To have something _is_ to be worthy of it. If one can keep something or take something from another, it is theirs by that right alone.

The Triforce - and dominion with it - belongs to the one who will claim it.

To the one who sees these words, be you mortal or god, know this: I, Ganondorf, king of the Gerudo, _will_ possess this Triforce. And when I do, all things - kings, gods, even Death - will yield to my will!

I am Ganondorf, and soon, I will rule the world!”


End file.
